


give him something to believe in

by howdoyousleep



Series: Senator Steve Rogers/Intern Bucky Barnes [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Boss/Employee Relationship, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Breathplay, Butt Slapping, Casual Sex, Choking, Cock Warming, Come Eating, Comeplay, Coming Untouched, Consensual Kink, Crying, Daddy Kink, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Face Slapping, Finger Sucking, Humiliation, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mouth Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Office Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slapping, Spit Kink, Sub Bucky Barnes, Subspace, Top Steve Rogers, Verbal Humiliation, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:54:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howdoyousleep/pseuds/howdoyousleep
Summary: “Hey, Bucky nice to see you. Sorry about this. Close the door?” The older man’s voice is professional, to the point. Bucky nods, closes the door behind him and then that professional voice changes, has a more of an authoritative edge when he purrs, “Lock it.”His Daddy Voice.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Senator Steve Rogers/Intern Bucky Barnes [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665868
Comments: 130
Kudos: 642





	give him something to believe in

**Author's Note:**

> This is different than what I've ever written for a plethora of different reasons. Please heed the tags. All my love to @the1918 and @Madeleine_Ward. Enjoy!

It was a simple question—

_“Barnes, I’m covering for Senator Wilson this afternoon. An evening meeting okay with you?”_

It was a simple question, but it had dropped like a boulder into the pit of Bucky’s stomach when Senator Rogers asked him. He’s never stayed late for a meeting. He hasn’t been alone with Mr. Rogers in almost two weeks, since he had to find a way out of his office in a hurry covered in the older man’s come underneath his clothes, rushing out on shaky legs. He’s gotten a few brushes of the ass and one kiss on the back of the neck since then, but he hasn’t been alone with him in two weeks.

He managed to respond with a, “Y-yes, sir that’s f-fine, all good,” before Mr. Rogers had curtly nodded his head and sent Bucky on his way.

Bucky couldn’t focus all day. He couldn’t focus on one single fucking thing, couldn’t even remember what his meeting was supposed to be about in the first place. He bounced from task to task completely in a daze, could barely focus on lunch, but even through his daze the day flew by; there was rarely a day that hadn’t. He spends the two-ish hours between the end of his workday and his meeting with Senator Rogers at a nearby coffee shop, wanting to have any resemblance of a breather, hoping the time away would clear his head.

It did no such thing.

By the time eight in the evening rolls around he’s walking with those shaky legs back in through the doors of the Senator’s office. He’s met with a smile, a cheery one with a tired edge, one that has Bucky feel like he’s trying to swallow his heart at the same time it tries to leave his body in a jump of a movement. Mr. Rogers is so handsome; it’s unnerving.

“Hey, Bucky nice to see you. Sorry about this. Close the door?” The older man’s voice is professional, to the point. Bucky nods, closes the door behind him and then that professional voice changes, has a more of an authoritative edge when he purrs, “ _Lock it.”_

His Daddy Voice.

Bucky flicks the lock with trembling fingers and turns around. He honestly isn’t sure of what to do, such a curious course of events and he isn’t even in the door more than a minute. He hates the thought of being presumptuous and slipping up, needing Mr. Rogers to be the one to initiate anything first, starting their scene for him.

Mr. Rogers doesn’t move to say anything though. He sits there and shuffles through some papers on his desk, messes with something on his computer. Oh. Bucky’s steps stutter forward, awkwardly adjusting his bag on his shoulder, managing to make it to the chair across from Mr. Roger’s desk. He sets his bag down next to the leg of his chair, pulls his notebook, pen, and iPad from his bag. When he looks back up Mr. Rogers is looking at him, leaning back a little in his chair, _smirking_.

It makes Bucky want to wiggle a little in his seat.

“Y’not gonna gimme a kiss?”

_Oh._

Even when given permission and that green light, he’s still nervous, still doesn’t want to make any sort of move. He makes a surprised little noise, _“Oh,”_ sets his things down on the Senator’s desk a little awkwardly before getting to his feet. He’s second-guessing his every move, ( _should he have gotten up?)_ , but the look on Mr. Rogers’ face doesn’t change, remains passive. When he’s an arms-length away from the older man, he reaches out from his place in his seat and wraps a hand around Bucky’s hip, pulls him to stand between his legs and brings his other hand up to Bucky’s opposite hip.

Even this simple of a touch, this possessive of one, has Bucky wanting to fight against the whimper attempting to escape up and out of his throat. He’s so upset with himself that he’s let someone have such a profound effect on him, that he’s let himself get swept up in this scandalous course of events, but there’s a dark part of him that relishes in it, that thrives on this sort of attention. He’s always had fantasies and dirty thoughts about older men, his father’s friends, unable to stop himself from getting hard to such scenarios in his mind. Mr. Rogers is everything he’s ever dreamt of in that dirty dark part of his brain. It’s risky and filthy and makes him feel like a piece of ass but it’s so fucking good and Mr. Rogers makes him feel things he hasn’t felt before and knows no one will bring him in the future.

He’ll continue taking that risk.

The older man’s lips on his make him almost immediately sigh, a heavy exhale that make his knees go a little weak, so warm and slick and demanding. He stands there between Mr. Rogers’ spread legs, hips held in a vice-like grip, yielding to the ebb and flow of the Senator’s kisses. It isn’t rushed. It normally is, constrained to time, always a risk of someone showing up or a meeting starting in the very same room. There’s a different kind of prickle on the back of his neck of the feeling of having that lost time in this moment, of others not being on the other side of the Senator’s door, of empty hallways and no sudden visitors.

Bucky feels somewhat hypnotized when Mr. Rogers pulls back, chases those lips a little bit, sigh turning into a little whine. While Bucky feels mortified by his reaction, the older man looks delighted, curls his fingers to dig his grip into Bucky’s skin with a hum.

“That’s better isn’t it, sugar?” he asks in such a soft voice that it adds to Bucky’s dizziness, the syrupy sweetness of the moment. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, chases the sensation of the Senator’s lips once more before nodding his head some, whispering, “Yes, Sir.” That makes him even happier, makes him pull Bucky in for one more kiss, chaste but deep.

“You feelin’ alright, Bucky?” Mr. Rogers asks and it’s somewhat like whiplash. The Senator has never asked Bucky how he is in such a casual manner, has never tried to make such small talk. Is this small talk? Does the older man really care about how Bucky is feeling? He decides to brush it off as much as he can, to think about this change later, nods his head and murmurs, “M’fine.” Mr. Roger’s looks up at him, eyes roving over his face some in a completely unnerving long few seconds until he sighs, runs his hands up Bucky’s back under his suit jacket, down to cup his ass.

That’s more like it.

“Got plans for you tonight, boy. You ready to hear ‘em?” Mr. Rogers says, and Bucky’s brow is immediately furrowing in confusion.

“Plans?” he asks quietly. The Senator chuckles, a light noise that Bucky just knows has some menace to it, something darker.

“Yes, Bucky— _plans_. You didn’t actually think we were going to just sign off on your schedule and edit a few speeches, did you?”

Bucky did, of course he did, feels a bit foolish now for thinking that was the plan all along. He chooses not to answer, is sure his blush is a satisfactory enough answer, instead ducks his head some, fidgets on his feet. Mr. Rogers whispers something along the lines of “ _adorable”_ before squeezing at Bucky’s ass cheeks some more, kneads at them in a pleasurable move.

“Gonna do somethin’ a little different tonight, honey,” he starts, big hands still sweeping all across Bucky’s body, his hips, his back, his ass, “Been thinkin’ about your mouth for weeks, how sweet it is and how good it feels wrapped all around my cock.”

If there was a dusting of blush on Bucky’s cheeks before it’s damn near opaque now, able to feel the heat of it crawl down his neck. He’s only gotten his mouth on Mr. Rogers’ cock once and it was short and sloppy, but it was perfect, the girth of him heavy in his mouth like it is heavy in his ass, but so different, _so delicious_. His mouth waters at the thought of this short memory and he swallows, tucks his chin and tries not to be transparent like Mr. Roger’s always says he is. It’s no use.

The Senator purrs out a deep noise and is then pulling on Bucky’s hands, his arms, pulls him right there to his knees at the older man’s feet, stumbling gracelessly between his spread thighs. Bucky’s never been in this position, has never been at Mr. Rogers’ feet, and it solidifies their roles and status in Bucky’s brain, a physical and visual representation of where Bucky and Mr. Rogers lie on a scale of importance. Mr. Rogers is a Senator, is dramatically more important than Bucky the Intern, and the power imbalance appeals to Bucky’s slutty side, makes him chub up in his pants.

Mr. Rogers has a tight hand on his chin in seconds, forces Bucky to maintain eye contact as he talks and continues to explain.

“ _Uh-huh_ , knew you’d love that, baby, look at that blush. Me sayin’ ten or so words about my cock already has you gaggin’ doesn’t it?” And what is Bucky supposed to say? Is he supposed to lie? Lie when the two of them know damn well he _dreams_ about that cock, always wants that cock inside of him? It would be stupid to try and lie but it’s the first and natural thing that comes out of Bucky’s mouth—mortified denial. When he goes to shake his head, he gets two good shakes in before Mr. Rogers is chuckling again, pulling Bucky’s chin forward.

“ _Ohh_ , sugar don’t lie to Daddy now,” he breathes on Bucky’s lips and Bucky’s next breath is a whimper. It’s appalling how easy Bucky is.

“Put your hand on my cock, do it— _touch me_ ,” Mr. Rogers demands, casual but with a demanding edge. Bucky knows his eyes must go wide in surprise, but his mouth drops open in arousal at the same time, two separate gestures that read two different ways. His hand twitches at his side at the request, isn’t sure if it’s a joke or a trap, but the older man squeezes at Bucky’s chin until it _hurts_ , eyes like a stormy ocean wave. 

“Put your hand on Daddy’s cock.”

Bucky’s hand is in Mr. Rogers’ lap in half a second, lays his hand over the fabric of dress pants, feels the obvious beginnings of an erection confined underneath. He whimpers when he feels it, naturally curls his fingers around the Senator’s cock, gropes at it in excitement that creeps through his crumbling restraint. Mr. Rogers lets out a low rumble, doesn’t pull his eyes away from Bucky’s.

“You tryin’ to tell me you don’t want that cock? That you wouldn’t beg me to fuck it into either of your holes? That you wouldn’t cry for my come? That you wouldn’t say _‘Thank you, Daddy’_ when I was done with you? Is that what you’re tryin’ to tell me, Buck?”

If Mr. Rogers didn’t have such a firm hold on Bucky’s chin, he’s almost certain he would collapse to the floor in his lightheadedness. His body thrums all over, core wanting to clench in on itself, body having such a visceral reaction to the Senator’s words that he’s worried he’ll actually start tearing up. His eyelids feel heavy and he knows he must look like an easy slut with his eyes blinking slowly and his mouth open as much as it can be in such a tight grip. He shakes his head as best he can, a tight jerky motion that Mr. Rogers feels under his fingers.

“No? No what, baby?”

“No, I’m…I’m not saying t-that, Daddy,” Bucky whimpers. The Senator lets his chin go and pats his cheek, a sharp little movement that makes Bucky feel some type of way.

“I know, sugar. Just wanted to hear you say it,” Mr. Rogers chides, kissing him chastely on the lips before sitting back into his chair. Where he previously couldn’t bear to meet the older man’s eyes minutes before, he doesn’t want to look away from them, feels a little hypnotized by them, wants them to guide his movements, wants to learn from them.

“As I was saying,” Mr. Rogers starts, fingers on his chin, “I have some work to do, things I need to do before we can get to your to-do list. And we both have been missin’ my cock in your mouth and need some time to unwind.” Bucky realizes his hand is still in the Senator’s lap and only comes to this realization when his fingers twitch and press into the warm fabric of his dress pants. He pulls it away in mortification, tries to not draw attention to his error, but Mr. Rogers is looking at Bucky with a smirk, like he’s going to tell Bucky to put it back.

“You ever put someone’s cock in your mouth and just let them rest it there on your tongue, sugar? No suckin’ or messin’ around? You know what that’s called?” Mr. Rogers’ voice is low like a hum and Bucky’s eyelids feel heavy again when the Senator’s hand comes up to slide his thumb along Bucky’s bottom lip. It’s extremely distracting. Bucky wants to suck it up into his mouth, wants to whine around it. Why does he _always_ want to be a good boy for the Senator?

Mr. Rogers’ eyes are on his own finger, Bucky’s bottom lip, when he answers, “N-no,” to the Senator’s question. He’s given head before, blown guys, but he’s never _not_ moved his head and mouth for the purpose of getting the other guy off. What’s the point of using your mouth when the other person doesn’t come?

“It’s called ‘cockwarming’ because you’re gonna keep my cock all nice and warm in your mouth until Daddy’s done with his work, until he decides what else to do to you.” Bucky’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, that transparency ever-present, and Mr. Rogers chooses this moment to stick his thumb right into Bucky’s mouth, right between his lips that immediately purse. It’s somewhat of a relief, embarrassing relief, that passes over his tense shoulders and down his spine, to have any piece of Mr. Rogers in his mouth, to have any piece of his attention.

“ _Ohh_ , sugar yeah you’re gonna be so good at this. No suckin’ or tryin’ to get Daddy’s cock hard—just sit like a good boy between his legs and keep him warm. You think you can do that, Bucky?”

Bucky can, Bucky wants to, doesn’t quite understand but is curious and incredibly turned on. He nods his head in a syrupy motion, runs his tongue along the pad of Mr. Rogers’ thumb, hums around it in lieu of a response. Mr. Rogers purrs, lets Bucky sit there on his knees and suckle on his digit, clarifies, “You might go soft on me, baby, y’might feel a little sleepy, a little foggy, might wanna close your eyes. And that’s all okay. You’re a sweet little thing, might happen fast, especially since you’ve never done this before.”

The Senator’s tone goes a little gruff at the end of his sentence, when he gets to the part about Bucky never having done this before. Bucky barely notices it though, lifts his eyes to look back up at Mr. Rogers, hadn’t even realized they had dropped. He wonders if he may be in that fog the older man is talking about now, wonders if it might intensify when he goes to put Mr. Rogers’ cock in his mouth.

It’s as if Bucky’s mind and body are trying to hit every checkbox of betrayal tonight and he whimpers when Mr. Rogers pulls his thumb from his mouth, is alarmed when he realizes how much saliva had pooled under his tongue. He watches as the Senator reaches for his fly, unzips it and pulls himself out with efficiency. Bucky hates how hot the sight of someone’s dick makes him, that molten pool of arousal in his tummy, embarrassingly easy. Mr. Rogers rolls forward in his chair some, presses Bucky back into his desk.

“Under, sugar. Daddy’s gotta work and he doesn’t need any distractions. Let’s go.”

The shame and arousal swirl together at the base of Bucky’s neck, is almost certain the flood of color on his cheeks moves south to his neck. He shuffles back a little awkwardly, movements stiff, whimpers a bit more.

“C-can I take my jacket off?” he asks rather meekly, barely recognizes his quiet high voice, and the Senator hums, holds out his hand. He isn’t sure where his suit jacket ends up, thinks Mr. Rogers tosses it across his desk into the chair Bucky had been sitting in not ten minutes prior. He doesn’t give a single shit about his jacket though, not when all he can focus on, all that makes a decent amount of humiliation pulse through his body in time with his heartbeat, is being shuffled under a Senator’s desk to be a warm place to put his cock while he works.

There’s a hand cupping his chin then, a guiding one, and Bucky opens his mouth quickly, shuffles forward on his knees. It’s dark under the desk, tight and cramped, but his head fits perfectly between Mr. Rogers’ thighs and he wants to bring his hands up to squeeze at them, wants to feel the power of them under his fingers, but it doesn’t feel like the right time. When he gets close enough, he sticks out his tongue, suckles the Senator’s half-hard cock into his mouth, tries to wiggle and adjust but immediately becomes aware of the peculiarity of cockwarming.

Mr. Rogers’ isn’t completely hard, but he isn’t entirely soft in his mouth either. Bucky is very aware that he is so used to moving his head and using it to work the other person over, to bring the person to orgasm, to swallow them down because now he _can’t_ do that. He goes to move his head some, to adjust, but the hand that was under his chin moves to cup the back of his neck, to pull him in. He hears a warm rumble, maybe his name, and he whimpers, wiggles his tongue some and then tries his hardest to simply… _remain still._

He manages to find a comfortable enough position under the desk, his legs spread criss-cross around the Senator’s own legs and feet, is able to keep his head tilted forward, the line of his body curved to accommodate for being in such a confined space. For the first few minutes Bucky _struggles_ , can’t get the hang of where to put his hands, keeps moving to pull his head back but Mr. Rogers is there to make a sharp noise to reel Bucky back in.

He can’t get out of his head, keeps thinking about the oddity of the scenario he’s found himself in, is too focused on what to do with his tongue and his lips. He must make a noise, a whimper of sorts that he doesn’t realize comes from himself, because Mr. Rogers murmurs, “ _Hush_ now, sugar. Lemme work. You’re doin’ good, bein’ a warm wet hole for Daddy, s’my boy,” and the older man’s cock twitches in his mouth some, Bucky lets out another whiny exhale and—

He takes a deep breath.

And then another one.

His eyelids fight to stay open on his fifth deep breath.

He forgets his mouth is full on his…twelfth breath?

Counting how many breaths he is taking is the last thing he spends brain power focusing on and that stops maybe two minutes in. He feels sleepy but it’s a different kind of sleepy, like his mind is dozing off but his body is awake. It makes his eyelids drop closed, makes his breaths even out and slow down. He curls his hands together in his lap, doesn’t even take note of his own half-erection confined in his pants, and takes breath after breath, comforted by a full mouth and a musky manly smell that is entirely Mr. Rogers.

His eyes are closed and he feels as if he is experiencing half of this time within his body and outside of it. He can hear the Senator typing on his computer, hears the hum of the mini fridge in the corner of the room. The noises blur together but are separate and defined to Bucky’s ears, add to the comfort he feels that eases his previous worries and makes them almost nonexistent.

Mr. Rogers brings his hand down to rub his fingers into Bucky’s scalp, through his hair, from time to time and it’s heavenly, brings Bucky back to himself, makes him whimper. Mr. Rogers will tell him to hush, will sometimes pat his cheek, and Bucky will be a _good boy_ , will listen immediately. Bucky always likes being a good boy for the Senator, even if being good means he has to feel a little ashamed along the way. Bucky hasn’t addressed the part of him that relishes in that shame, the humiliation, and he thinks it might be some time before he does.

Bucky isn’t sure how much time truly passes, minutes ticking by like syrup through an hourglass, but he enjoys it here, likes this whole cockwarming thing. He feels a little like he does after he has an orgasm or after he goes on a run—relieved and relaxed and sleepy. The noises blur together beautifully, the typing of keys and shuffling of papers and even the noises of Mr. Rogers talking on the phone—it all makes him drift away to this soft spot.

He’s abruptly ripped from this soft spot though, when Mr. Rogers has a hand in his hair and is _tugging_ , not the gentle motion Bucky had grown used to. He gasps, ends up trying to move up in order for the burning pain on his scalp to ease up but Mr. Rogers won’t let him do that. The older man is talking and Bucky gives a whine around a mouthful when the Senator’s hand strokes through his hair some, a lighter motion. He would wonder what the change was about, but he’s already almost forgotten about it in his current headspace, settles back into Mr. Rogers’ crotch with a sigh, can’t stop himself from slurping a little.

That gets him another tug, _another hard one,_ leaves Bucky letting out a noise that indicates the unspoken, _“What the fuck?!”_ but ends up choking some, gagging around a hardening cock. He’s pressed in tight by a hand on the back of his head, _such a large hand,_ hair still pulled taught, and it cruelly yanks Bucky from that fluffy cloud he wants so badly to stay on. It brings him to the moment, brings him back to awareness enough to realize that Mr. Rogers is talking and it isn’t to him.

“— _unnecessary, Mr. Barnes don’t worry. I assure you that_ —”

Bucky feels his blood run cold but even then, it takes him much too long to realize that Mr. Rogers is on the phone with his own father.

Surely he isn’t.

The pain on Bucky’s scalp doesn’t even register even more, the humiliation and panic of hearing his father addressed a far greater feeling. He knows Mr. Rogers can tell Bucky realizes what is happening by his slack mouth, his tense shoulders, probably hears his heavy breathing. Bucky doesn’t even realize his hands have come up to grip at the older man’s shins until he squeezes his fingers the next time he hears a “ _Mr. Barnes”._

“ _—_ No, no he’s an excellent addition to the team, a real team player, I assure you,” Mr. Rogers tells the person on the other line, _Bucky’s father,_ tugs on Bucky’s hair a little, a physical taunt of sorts. Bucky doesn’t mean to make a pitiful noise, some kind of sob, but he can’t stop it from happening, tumbles out of his mouth but goes nowhere. His cheeks are beyond burning, is well past the point of humiliation, has never felt so goddamn torn in his entire life.

“Yeah, he’s a great kid, very willing to help and take on tasks. Mhmm, right right. Of course, he sure has a future ahead of him,” and _fuck,_ the feeling of pride and the signs of preening fill his mind, his chest, but his mouth is full of cock, _the Senator’s cock,_ and he’s on the phone with _Bucky’s father._ Bucky can’t decide if he wants to take that praise and run with it or if he should be ashamed he’s under a desk practically throat-fucking a Senator’s cock at this point.

He lets out a whine, a confused one, an aroused and ashamed one, when Mr. Rogers hand goes tight in his hair again, shoves him forward a little, grips the back of his neck. The Senator is growing harder in his mouth, which tears at Bucky again because he’s a slut for the Senator’s cock in his mouth but doesn’t know how to feel about Mr. Rogers growing hard while talking to his father.

“Rest assured, Mr. Barnes—Bucky goes above and beyond over here and we love having him on the team.”

Bucky feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, overwhelmed with the onslaught of unfamiliar sensations and emotions, hates himself when he slurps lewdly at the erection in his mouth, moans at the feeling of it heavy on his tongue. His moan is followed by another panicked whimper, can’t stop his panic from rising through his actions. He can hear one shaky breath, the only sign he has gotten from Mr. Rogers that he even notices Bucky and what he’s doing. He can’t even recall if his father was the one that called Mr. Rogers or if Mr. Rogers was the one who chose to call his father.

Surely Mr. Rogers wouldn’t do that to Bucky.

Bucky is ashamed and humiliated and jittery, but he can’t ignore the other burning feeling in his gut, the one that keeps his tongue moving, his head fighting against Mr. Rogers’ hand in order to bob a little more. He doesn’t want to think about how his dick feels all achy and how he’s never wanted to be fucked more in his life, will easily beg for whatever it is Mr. Rogers wants to do to him. This makes Bucky feel like a secret and he is sickeningly proud, wants to make sure that Mr. Rogers feels good about his decision to keep Bucky as his hidden-away piece of ass.

A few tears slip over the edge of Bucky’s eyelids, and even though they started off as ones of humiliation and panic, they fall as ones of overwhelming arousal. If Mr. Rogers wants a slut, he’s got one.

Bucky doesn’t even hear the Senator end the phone conversation with his father, too busy trying to focus his blurry eyes and take a proper breath through his nose. He wants his mouth full now, wants to choke, _wants to gag_ , makes such a startling noise when Mr. Rogers pulls back that he’s almost embarrassed by it.

He has other things he should be more embarrassed about at the moment.

As soon as his mouth is empty he’s gasping and sputtering out, “ _Please p-please, Mr—D-Daddy please –”_ but there’s a hand in his hair and whereas previously Bucky would have hissed, this time it has him moaning, has him crawling forward on his hands and knees. His head still feels a little foggy, as it tends to when he wakes up from a nap or early in the morning, but his body is thrumming with energy.

“Fuckin’ knew you’d look like a wet dream crawlin’ across my floor,” the Senator says, voice vastly different than it was just half a minute prior. This voice is dripping in sensuality, in control and baritone, makes Bucky’s arms feel weak as he comes to a stop between the older man’s thighs. He doesn’t even think, just goes to move forward towards Mr. Rogers’ cock, but the hand in his hair pulls him up, brings his face right in front of Mr. Rogers’.

He wants a kiss as soon as he sees those cerulean fire eyes, wants more than a kiss, wants something that will last beyond the night. The hand in his hair moves to cup his chin, fingers digging into his cheeks some, painful but not as painful as his hair being tugged at. At this point though, Bucky is registering pain as pleasure, that little bite to any movement something he can relish in, take pleasure in.

“Look at you, sugar,” Mr. Rogers coos right into his goddamn mouth and Bucky chokes on an embarrassing noise. Mr. Rogers looks so calm and collected aside from the angry erection he is now sporting, is slow to move forward and kiss Bucky’s lips sweetly, eyes watching Bucky’s the whole time.

“What’ya beggin’ for, Bucky? Huh? D’you even know?” the Senator asks, and Bucky wants to sink into this voice, this man, wants to melt into him and let him do whatever he wants with Bucky. The Senator is right though—Bucky isn’t entirely sure what he’s begging for, far too enthusiastic, _desperate,_ for anything he can get. He tries to answer, stutters on his words, isn’t sure what to say, and ends up simply making a bundle of noises before Mr. Rogers tells him to hush.

“Wasn’t sure how you’d react to your father callin’ me but I for damn sure didn’t expect you to want to suck my cock with enthusiasm,” and _oh_ , there’s that shame again, that little prickle of it at the base of his neck, the highpoints of his cheekbones. Mr. Rogers purrs, leans forward to kiss at Bucky’s lips again.

“Who’da thought I’d have such a little slut on my hands.”

Bucky can’t help but squirm a little, preen at the way Mr. Rogers says those words, like he’s a little proud of Bucky. Instead of another kiss like Bucky expects and yearns for, Mr. Rogers brings his other hand up to his face, slips two fingers between his lips up to the second knuckle. The questioning moan that Bucky lets out is almost obscene, makes the Senator let out a little groan. Bucky’s eyelids feel heavy at the bone-deep sound of it and having something to suck on in his mouth again.

“You like havin’ your mouth full, don’t you, baby?” Mr. Rogers breathes featherlight, eyes flicking down to Bucky’s mouth and back up to his eyes. He does, _God help him,_ he does, nods his head and lets out a tiny defeated whimper, runs his tongue along the pads of the thick fingers in his mouth. The older man chuckles, just as quiet as the other noise, kisses at a corner of Bucky’s lips.

“That made you feel some type’a way back there, Buck? You went all sweet on me with your mouth full’a cock, didn’t you?”

Bucky moans, a little _mhmm_ of a noise, wishes for a second his mouth wasn’t full so he could verbalize just how much he liked it, but he wants it full. He suckles at the Senator’s fingers some more, eyes locked as he does so, and then Mr. Rogers is pulling his fingers back, tapping the wet digits on the side of Bucky’s face a tad harshly before rolling back some more in his chair.

“Let’s keep you full then, sweetheart, let’s keep you gaggin’ and weepin’ for it.”

Mr. Rogers reaches for a bag, a bag he carries around with him daily, retrieves a slim bottle from it and Bucky wants to hump the floor at the sight of it.

_Lube._

Mr. Rogers carries a bottle of lubricant with him daily, everywhere he goes. Bucky props his trembling form up by placing his hands on the floor between his spread thighs, lets his head loll back between his shoulders some. He’s entirely overwhelmed, has no time to process the way he wants to, just knows he wants something in his mouth, _fuck._ What has Mr. Rogers done to him?

“Up, sugar— _pants off, across my desk_.”

Bucky is afraid he is going to come, makes a shaky noise, a whine, opens his eyes to look up at Mr. Rogers and feels that floaty space slip through his veins, a little like honey. He wants to remember this moment until he’s under the ground, wants to remember the way Mr. Rogers looks down at him with his gorgeous cock hard and proud, a bottle of lube in his hand, how he feels at the older man’s feet.

He’s going to touch himself to this moment and this night for years to come.

“ _Up,”_ Mr. Rogers says sternly, and Bucky knows by his tone that this is the last chance he’ll get before his movements are not his own choice. He moves, wobbles, turns to face the desk. He fumbles with his belt buckle, struggles with his zip. At the sound of the cap _snapping_ open behind him, Bucky makes a soft noise, pushes at the waistband of his pants and his briefs, lets them fall to the floor around his ankles with uncharacteristic ease.

There are things on Mr. Rogers’ desk, his closed laptop and heaps of paper, but he has no time to worry about them when Mr. Rogers grips the back of his neck in a move that leaves Bucky scrambling and falling gracelessly face-first into the hard wooden surface.

“Grip the edge,” Mr. Rogers tells him, but Bucky can’t keep up, processing far slower than normal, and Mr. Rogers’ fingers go tight on his neck, bites out, “ _Grip the edge, Bucky.”_ He does so quickly and with a whine, hands flying up to grab onto the opposite side of the large desk, relishes minutely in the way it stretches the line of his body out. When his fingers have a decent grab on the desk, Mr. Rogers lets go of his neck, sighs as if he’s annoyed.

“Remind me next time that havin’ my cock in your mouth for more than ten minutes makes you go stupid.”

The noise that Bucky lets out is akin to a wail, low and quiet, but loud enough to make the Senator smack a hand down on his ass in response, right on the fleshy part of the cheek. A tight squeeze follows, a groan, a murmur of, “Good thing you got a sweet ass, sugar, _goddamn_.” Bucky bites his bottom lip this time, can’t help but arch his back some at the praise. Mr. Rogers chuckles, a tiny noise, before he moves to sit in his office chair behind Bucky.

He doesn’t even have time to wallow in his embarrassment of being put in such a position and to have the Senator behind him almost eye-level with his most intimate parts. There’s a slick finger between his cheeks, against his hole, and he feels a bearded cheek rub against the sensitive skin of his bottom.

“Wish I had time to get my mouth on this pretty boy cunt,” Mr. Rogers purrs and _fuck,_ Bucky thinks he stops breathing for a good three seconds, wishes the fingers circling his rim were Mr. Rogers mouth. He’ll dream about that later, doesn’t have time now when the older man sinks a finger _in_ without wasting any time, doesn’t even hesitate. He pumps it a few times, very methodical, and Bucky barely sees the second one coming, squeals when it slides in right next to the first.

“But we still have things to do tonight, Bucky, still have a list to get through, don’t we?” Mr. Rogers asks, tone one that would not imply he’s two fingers deep into Bucky’s ass while he’s sprawled across the top of the Senator’s desk. With each move, each glide, of Mr. Rogers’ thick fingers Bucky makes some sort of garbled noise, chokes on his breaths but seemingly can’t catch a good one. He’s trying so hard to listen to what Mr. Rogers is saying but it’s barely getting through to him, barely registering.

“Still have to approve some meetings and invitations. I think you need some signatures for school too,” and how the _fuck_ does he sound so casual as he spreads and scissors Bucky’s cunt open more, so thoroughly, so efficiently. There’s no sensual edge to this even though Bucky damn well searches for it; this is mechanical. This feels like the Senator is simply moving through the motions in order to get Bucky to a place for whatever is planned next.

_Oh god,_ there’s a next.

“ _Shit,”_ Bucky ends up biting out, wants to stretch his body out more and lean into the shivers and sensations of something finally being inside of him, but Mr. Rogers clicks his tongue.

“Language,” he tuts, thrusts his fingers in and out of Bucky a few more times, and Bucky can _feel_ the smirk, knows it’s there on Mr. Rogers’ face.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do, baby,” Mr. Rogers starts right as his fingers start to slide in and out of Bucky’s ass rhythmically, start to give the younger the sensation of being fucked but without the Senator’s fat cock. It’s devastating.

“You listenin’? Or can you not focus on more than one thing while somethin’ is stuffed up your cunt, Bucky? That won’t be good with what I have planned, honey…”

“N-no! No, I’m… _ngh_ , I’m listening, Sir,” Bucky scrambles, fingers going numb from holding onto the only thing that is keeping him grounded right now, that being the desk underneath him. Mr. Rogers continues as if Bucky hadn’t spoken.

“You warmed my cock with your mouth earlier, y’loved it, and now you’re gonna do it with this sweet boy cunt.”

It’s said with such straightforwardness that Bucky feels it hit his chest but has no idea what it means in his brain, unable to compute what Mr. Rogers is talking about.

“We both need to calm down a little, both need to take a breather and focus on some work, so you’re gonna sit here on Daddy’s cock while we do that. Okay, Buck?”

_Okay?_

_Okay, Buck?_

“That sound good to you?”

Bucky can’t breathe.

“ _Uh-huh_ ,” is what he ends up gasping out but quickly follows it with a tight, “Yes, Daddy,” is so worried he’s going to come he instinctively clenches down around Mr. Rogers’ fingers before they’re pulled from their spot inside of Bucky. He feels Mr. Rogers’ fingers slide messily on his thigh, turns his head to press his other flushed cheek against the cooler surface of the wood, hears himself whine.

The theme of the night seems to have everything to do with overwhelming Bucky, both in action and in pace, and as soon as he seems to be able to truly comprehend, Mr. Rogers is settling back into his chair, gripping Bucky’s hips and pulling him back. He barely has enough time to let out a small squeak, to try and grasp at what is happening, but his hands miraculously find the arms of Mr. Rogers’ chair behind him.

_“That’s it,_ sit back onto Daddy’s cock, c’mere,” the Senator purrs, voice so goddamn deep Bucky is almost certain he can feel it in his toes. Bucky would like to think he has any semblance of control over his actions, over this moment, but he has none, relies on Mr. Rogers in almost every way. His chest quakes in a ripple of a movement when he feels his favorite cock press up against his slick and sensitive hole, sputters out words that don’t make sense.

It’s an odd feeling, being relieved and overwhelmed at the same time. Bucky’s sigh turns into a sob the moment he feels that initial press, that toe-curling stretch of his hole, as he slowly sits back into the Senator’s lap.

_“Oh,_ fuckin’ hell, Buck,” Mr. Rogers groans, lips on his shoulder blade as he’s allowed to press back at his own pace, “Y’so hungry aren’t’ you, baby? Yeah? This pretty pink hasn’t been fed well in a while, has it? _I know_ , Daddy’s sorry, gonna give you more than you need tonight, sugar.”

Bucky’s arms shake, his legs shake, his bottom lip shakes. How can Mr. Rogers say such condescending and mean things but sound so sweet and caring saying them? It makes Bucky’s gut clench. He _is_ hungry, wants to be filled up, has missed it. It’s awkward and messy, his pants and underwear still around his ankles, his shirt and tie still intact on his upper half, but by the time his ass meets the somewhat rough fabric of Senator Rogers’ dress pants, Bucky thinks he has a few tears streaming down his cheeks.

With his own legs pressed together between the Senator’s own splayed ones, Bucky feels like he’s going to burst at the seams with Daddy cock. It’s almost more overwhelming than sliding down onto Mr. Rogers’ cock, sitting on it as the older man pushes at Bucky’s hands on the armrests, makes him bear down and take it in full.

“So… _oh_ so much, oh my god, so—”

“You sure know how to make a man feel good about himself, pretty,” Mr. Rogers purrs out, flicking his tongue along the shell of Bucky’s ear as he tightens his arms around Bucky’s waist. Bucky can’t focus, wants to— _needs to—_ be focusing but he can’t fucking keep up.

“Always forget how fucking _good_ this cunt feels on my cock, baby. _Goddamn.”_

Bucky wants to press up, wants to start fucking himself up and down onto the Senator’s cock like a little bunny, hard and fast and slutty, but Mr. Rogers’ grip is too tight. He whines in frustration, rolls his hips in a few tight little circles, groans at the stretch of his rim as he does so. It feels so _fucking good_ to be full again, makes him feel feral, makes him want to bite at Mr. Rogers’ grip on his waist.

_“Hey,_ hey now, kitten. Calm down. That’s not what we’re doin’ remember? Huh? Gotta do some more work, just gotta sit here in Daddy’s lap like a good boy, a sweet boy.”

He thinks the _“No!”_ he wails out in his head might slip between his lips in a similar verbal sound, a few tears of frustrations pouring over his eyelids. He sniffles, gives a useless, “P-please, Daddy no, I—” but is cut off by a quick and sharp tap on his cheek. The teeth at his jaw dig into his skin a little bit, a warning rumble given by the older man as well.

“Don’t you fuckin’ tell me no, boy. You sit here and answer my questions and look pretty. Your job is to keep Daddy’s cock warm, not to give me any fuckin’ lip. You understand?”

Bucky’s dick _throbs_ , jumps against the fabric of his own dress shirt, leaks like a pussy. Even though there’s a strong grip on his chin, he nods his head, defeated, sniffles again, “Y-yes, Daddy.” Mr. Rogers makes another angry noise but this time it sounds like more of a pleased one, squeezes Bucky’s chin before he shakes it and lets go.

“You know what you cryin’ fuckin’ does to me, makes me a bad goddamn man. Wipe ‘em up, let’s go; we’ve got work to do.”

With the straight-forward order, Mr. Rogers is rolling forward in his chair, one arm wrapped tight around Bucky’s waist as he does so. Bucky lets himself let out another sniffle, a whimper, as he sits back into Daddy’s lap, let’s himself get used to the feeling of simply having a cock inside of him. They barely fit under the Senator’s desk, the two of them together, Bucky’s hands reaching out to grip the edge of it before running into it. The minute amount of self-control he did have is dwindling by the second, is leaving his system each time he tries to swallow down a whine or blink away a tear.

He can’t grasp how he is supposed to sit here and do anything other than work the cock that’s in his ass, clench around it, fuck himself on it. He’s just expected to sit here and be still? How do people do this?

Mr. Rogers works in a manner that almost proves Bucky’s presence is entirely unneeded. He moves some papers around the desk efficiently, pulls his laptop closer to them, grabs a pen. It’s as if Bucky is in no way wiggling in his lap and choking down hiccups, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to will his self-control back.

“Alright Bucky, let’s talk meetings. You’ve been in talks with five organizations, yes?”

Bucky can’t answer. He rolls his neck, tries to focus his eyes down onto Mr. Rogers’ desk, the pen gracefully being held between two fingers. All he can think about is Mr. Rogers’ cock, able to feel the immense stretch of him in his ass, breaths stuttering in his chest, his lungs. He tries so hard, _so goddamn hard,_ not to squeeze his walls around the hot steel of the Senator’s cock but—

“ _Bucky_ …”

Mr. Rogers’ voice is like molten lava, is predatory and a hefty warning but it only makes Bucky hotter, makes him close his eyes and whimper pathetically. He doesn’t open his eyes, feels his stomach ripple with the deep breath he takes, responds with, “Y-yes. Five organization.” Bucky hopes each question the older man has for him is as easy to answer as this one is, if not easier. Bucky doesn’t think they can get easier but he does think he might be able to get stupider.

“Excellent. You’ve gotten a few meeting time options for each one?” Bucky opens his eyes, half-lidded and hazy vision.

_“Mhmm…”_

Mr. Rogers numbers the paper one through five beneath his pen, arm still tight but natural and casual around Bucky’s waist. Is this actually happening to Bucky right now?

“What are your organizations?”

_Oh._ This question might be harder. Bucky recites the first two on his list, can see it in his head, the paper he had been taking notes on. He stutters, uncharacteristically whines when he draws a blank on more than half of his groups, vibrating with chaotic arousal.

“Are your notes in your notebook?” Senator Rogers asks coolly and Bucky nods, neck feeling weak and wobbly as he does so.

“Grab it, let’s go,” Mr. Rogers instructs, tone clipped. Bucky’s forehead crinkles in confusion even though the directions are clear. He can see his notebook, see where it lies on the desk across from him, where he left it what feels like _hours_ ago. It feels like it’s across the street. Grabbing it requires him to move, to lean forward and across. It isn’t a movement he would ever question in any other predicament, but in one such as this it has it feeling impossible.

Mr. Rogers pinches the side of Bucky’s ass, makes Bucky yip like a little dog, and then he’s leaning forward without thought to reach for the notebook and—

_“Ohh…”_

That’s it, that’s the stretch he wants, _he needs_. It has his elbows falling to the desk, has his head falling in the same manner. The Senator’s cock slips from him maybe one inch, the man remaining still as Bucky moves forward, but to Bucky it feels like he’s getting _fucked._ He’s so sensitive, has never felt so much in his life, feels like it might be too much but it also isn’t enough whatsoever. When his fingers wrap around the spiral of his notebook Mr. Rogers pull him back by the arm around Bucky’s waist.

_“Nngh_ oh, oh _god_ I—” Bucky can’t even finish his words, just confusion and noise as the older man yanks him back hard and _deep_ , the grind something sublime. It makes Bucky’s lips curl, makes him fight to keep his eyes open, makes him produce noises like he’s choking. Mr. Rogers ignores them, hums when he sees the list scribbled down in Bucky’s notebook.

“These are great, Buck,” he compliments in a god-awful casual tone, copying the list in his own notes, and that isn’t out of the norm for a compliment from Senator Rogers but _shit,_ that feels like it goes right to his gut, his dick, _his ass._

He can’t do this.

Every time he takes a breath, inhales, he whines, feels his rim stretch with it. He feels fucked full but that’s a load of shit because he isn’t being fucked, there is not movement. He’s sitting here trying to have a meeting he’s been a part of a handful of times before and he can’t focus, can’t think, can barely breathe. He _needs_ to come, needs the movement, needs to be fucked.

He lets his head loll back onto Mr. Rogers’ shoulder with a hiccup, tries to use any remaining ounce of energy to grind and clench his achy hole around the hot steel of the Senator’s cock. He _growls,_ makes a low noise of warning and lets it out right into Bucky’s ear, mumbles, _“Buck…”._

He can’t do this.

“I…I can’t, god please I can’t do it,” he cries, overcome with heightened emotion coupled with the physical feeling of being stuffed. Mr. Rogers makes a noise that resembles a scoff, an annoyed huff, before a capable hand is coming up and wrapping itself around the front of Bucky’s throat. 

Bucky’s entire weak and sensitive form clenches up. 

“No, _no._ You can and you _will,_ boy _._ You sit here and be good and quit your squirming,” fingers tighten, Bucky whines. “Don’t go stupid, come on, sugar.” 

Bucky’s already there. 

The hand around his throat helps in absolutely no way, and in fact, does the exact opposite. It makes his own fingers dig _hard_ into the arms of the Senator’s chair, makes him press his whine into Mr. Rogers’ cheek. He’ll grovel, he’ll beg and plead, he doesn’t even care, he just wants his Daddy to fuck him. 

“Please, Daddy p-please I’ll... _fuck_ p-please I just—“ 

“You know what to say to make it stop.”

He does. He knows _yellow_ will slow things down and that _red_ will bring everything to a halt but both are unnecessary. Bucky is uncomfortable but not in a way that makes him feel violated in any way. He’s okay; he’s just being... _impatient_. Mr. Rogers quickly understands, can probably feel the way Bucky is about to vibrate out of his skin.

“You’re already there.” 

It isn’t an inquiry, a question— it’s a statement. With his neck still curled back he nods his head frantically, pathetically, chokes out, _“Uh-huh_ ,” and then the Senator’s clicking his tongue, squeezing at the front of Bucky’s neck _hard._ Bucky’s dick leaks like a broken faucet. He’s sure he’s ruining his dress shirt, is sure he looks like a literal mess.

“Bucky, this is _embarrassing_ ,” he seemingly _purrs_ into Bucky’s cheek, says it so directly and so authoritatively that it makes the flame of humiliation lick up Bucky’s neck to his cheeks. He feels a tear or two slip down said cheeks but is beyond caring about anything other than his Senator Daddy and his fat cock. Mr. Rogers get aggressive then, movements tight as he scoots his chair back, digs his teeth into the shell of Bucky’s ear. 

“Wish you could focus on anything but _cock_ , Bucky. Such a little one-track minded slut, aren’t you?”

Bucky’s chest shakes, his eyes roll a bit. He does nothing to stop the rhythmic pulses of his cunt. 

“Uh-huh,” is all he can choke out, a hand rising on its own accord and fisting its way back into Mr. Rogers’ hair. 

“Can’t even get through a meeting without needing to tend to my slutty intern and one of his slutty holes, ain’t that right? _Ah ah—_ words, Bucky, come on.” 

That one is a direct hit. That one makes Bucky’s teeth clenched together, makes him roll his hips in a tight tiny motion, which then makes the hand around Bucky’s neck go minutely tighter. He’s so close, _so close._ He’ll be whatever the Senator wants him to be, but this one he feels in his core, in his center. This is everything he wants to be for the older man and he makes sure to let Mr. Rogers know just that.

_“Yes,_ fuck need it so b-bad, Daddy please, m’gaggin’ for it, I’m hungry. _M’a slut_ , such a slut please, _please god_ …”

He gets one shaky sob and one open-mouthed kiss that is sloppy and smacks against the Senator’s cheek before he’s being moved, being pushed forward and lifted. A gasp would signify his surprise, but he’s been producing gasps for a good half hour now, maybe longer; time seems to be quite meaningless at this point. His face meets the desk in front of him with a bite that makes his toes curl in his shoes. Mr. Rogers is pressed down against the line of his back, his teeth on the nape of Bucky’s neck when he spits out—

_“Just gonna have to fuck one outta you then.”_

Bucky is in no way prepared. He assumed he would be because of the way he’s spent the past…however long it’s been since he sat himself on Mr. Rogers’ cock, but he was wrong. Bucky thinks he feels the older man dig his teeth into his neck before he stands but he’s far too distracted by the feeling of the cock inside of him _moving._ It’s been motionless for so long, _still_ , and feeling Senator Rogers’ erection pull back with a fury has him choking on his own spit, has him sputtering into the papers beneath his cheek.

But he doesn’t even have time to get proper words out, to relish in the feeling of the slick slide of a thick cock pulling free from his cunt. Mr. Rogers’ hips roll forward in an overwhelming roll, skin _slapping_ against Bucky’s own as he fucks into him. The hand on the back of his neck, _(the hand on the back of his neck?),_ holds him in place as Mr. Rogers sets a brutal pace. It’s a pace that has Bucky wailing, _finally,_ unconcerned of who can hear, voice cracking and bouncing with the impact of the other man’s movements.

Bucky had no idea Senator Rogers is such a beast, so _powerful_. Is that because Bucky feels so weak, because he’s been broken down? Or is that because the Senator truly is this strong, is this large and commanding? Bucky isn’t sure, doesn’t give a fuck, not when he’s getting the life so thoroughly fucked out of him.

“Wish we could just get through a fuckin’ meeting without you whinin’ like a little bitch in heat,” Mr. Rogers spits, and Bucky would rightfully think he’s genuinely upset with Bucky if it weren’t for the throaty groan that follows the pointed jab. Bucky moans, lets his noise go on and on, keens and lays there and _takes it_ , can’t even properly brace for each of the thrusts. Mr. Rogers fucks him _deep_ , fucks him _hard_ , his cock heavy and delicious and so fucking _thick_ inside of him.

It takes him longer than he would’ve liked to realize that Mr. Rogers isn’t going to give him what he wants. He’s too caught up in the delicious way that his body yields so completely to the older man, to the disgustingly perfect noises of his ass getting reamed, that he doesn’t realize this isn’t a fuck to make Bucky feel good, one that the Senator will take his time with; this is fucking with purpose. Mr. Rogers was right—this is strictly to fuck one out of Bucky.

_“Ohhh…”_

The grip on the back of his neck tightens, his cheek smashed into the desk making his lips purse, which in turn makes his next pathetic noise let loose without any sort of barrier. It’s loud. It makes Bucky’s cheeks light up. It isn’t as loud as the one he gives his Daddy when a wide palm cracks down on his ass cheek.

“You wanted it, _you fucking take it_ , boy. We have shit to do, Bucky. You’re gonna come, _yeah,_ your Daddy’s gonna make you come. Gonna fuck the come right outta you so we can get on with our to-do list. _Let’s go_.”

Mr. Rogers’ voice is _deep_ , makes Bucky feel like he’s hearing it from within, lets his words bounce around his seemingly empty and cock-drunk skull. He huffs, has the audacity to pout and squirm. Mr. Rogers isn’t wrong, Bucky did want this, but he wanted… _not this_. He wanted this to go on for ages, wanted to get fucked like a Pillow Princess, wanted to beg to come again and again and be given just that. He didn’t want to be pushed there to barely enjoy it, for purposes other than his own pleasure.

He gets another stinging smack on his ass for his troubles.

“S’right you dirty thing—gonna take what Daddy gives you and say _‘thank you’_ and be grateful. _Come on_ , let’s get it over with.”

Bucky’s dick feels _painful_ between his legs, balls drawing tight, achy and full. He’s so incredibly sexually frustrated and torn, wants to throw a fit but can’t when his legs quake at being so thoroughly fucked, eyes rolling at the sensation of Mr. Rogers’ heavier sac slapping against his own. He hates it, wants to fucking bite at any part of the older man he can, hates that he can’t come the way he wants to. He hates that he’s so fucking easy and feels the stirrings of a climax in his gut, in his groin.

He hates how much he _fucking loves it._

“I…I need—”

“You don’t need shit, Bucky. Don’t be a brat.”

Bucky _whines,_ chokes on it when the hand on his neck takes home in his hair, pulls agonizingly taut, makes Bucky’s neck bend in a way that leaves him scrambling and gasping. It also leaves his dick, _the dick that needs attention to come,_ weeping and rubbing into the desk, bouncing with each jarring movement the Senator provides with his thrusts. He’s shocked by it, terribly surprised when the movement that should bring him more than a bite of pain brings him pleasure instead. A hand tight in his hair, drool on his cheek, and another sharp smack to his ass and he’s _coming_.

_“There it is, that’s it…”_

It damn near violent. There had been such pressure on his sweet spot he hadn’t realized the magnitude of what it would feel like to endure a rhythmic and repeated assault on it so quickly after. He’s never had an orgasm without a hand on his dick, at least he thinks he hasn’t. He’s never had an orgasm so physical, so loud, one that makes him simultaneously thrash yet yield to another and _take it._ Mr. Rogers moans as he holds Bucky down, thrusts slow and luxurious and very much _present_ , like he’s enjoying every millisecond of feeling Bucky’s body just give its all to his climax. The Senator’s groan turns into a chuckle, a gluttonous one.

_“Goddamn,_ you did need this.”

Bucky shouts in response, lets a plethora of noises bubble up into one hysterical one. He feels papers crumble under his hands, can’t stop the roll of his own torso, the press and grind back into Mr. Rogers and that fucking cock. How can he be so sensitive but want so much more? Wave after wave of sheer relief rolls up his spine and down again, his dick spurting between his body and the Senator’s desk. He’s messy, sticky, _panting._ He’s used to reaching his orgasms at his own pace, slowly and luxuriously, not having them ripped from his grasp so furiously.

_“Fuck,_ ” is all he can hiccup out, the hand in his hair giving way and allowing for him to turn his cheek into the top of the desk, rolling his cheek into his own notebook. Mr. Rogers gives him a few seconds before he’s clicking his tongue disapprovingly, hand running down Bucky’s spine calmingly, up to his neck again.

_“Oh, sugar_ you made a mess’a this desk, didn’t you?”

Bucky feels like his soul is only in his body partially, feels like he’s more tucked away in his head than anything else. He feels like he did when he was hidden away under the desk with his mouth full of cock. His hands are under his body, pressed there after a set of unknown movements, and all he can do is whimper pitifully as he tries his hardest to keep his eyes open. He wants to lie down, wants to maybe sleep, and he whines when the Senator leans down, lips at his ear.

“You better clean this up, Bucky. I’m no Daddy to a messy boy.”

Bucky knows, _he knows,_ that if this were ten minutes before and he’d been guided to his own come on top of a stack of papers, he would have blushed somethin’ furious, would have thrown an absolute fit. But when Mr. Rogers kisses Bucky’s cheek, wraps a thick arm around his waist and pulls them back, Bucky moves like water, pliant and fluid.

He’s tasted himself before, done what most have done and curiously stuck a finger in his mouth slick with his own release. In his wildest filthiest dreams, he couldn’t have dreamt up that Senator Rogers would be balls-deep inside of him and commanding Bucky to clean his own come off of his desk with his tongue. But that’s exactly what happens. Most of his mess is on his shirt, on his own body, but there are hopefully unimportant documents that are filthy with his own come.

When he opens his mouth, sticks his tongue out, his sigh is far too loud, far too dreamy, but he’s not sure either of them mind. In fact, Mr. Rogers purrs into Bucky’s hair at the first swipe of his tongue, guided by a wide palm on the back of his head, and he kisses at his ear before encouraging, “That’s a good boy, Buck.”

Bucky’s ass subconsciously clenches at the praise.

Bucky surprisingly doesn’t get uncomfortable laving his tongue across paper, licking up his own release. He almost feels like he’s still coming, the pleasure slowly humming through his form, his head foggy with it, but that might be because of the small pulses of the Senator’s hips. The older man had made it clear that this fuck was for Bucky, to give him one orgasm so they could resume their meeting, but it’s almost even more clear that this bit is for Daddy.

“Get it all, Buck, _that’sa boy_ , s’a good boy.”

Bucky whimpers as he chases the rest of his come, whimpers again in response to the pathetic noise of how desperate he sounds eating up his own warm spunk. He doesn’t bother to lift his head, simply turns his cheek into the notebook beneath it as he smacks his lips. It’s degrading, the most debased thing he’s probably ever done and will ever do, but it feels right. It makes him feel like that desired piece of ass he’s been wanting to feel like and he almost wants to cry tears of joy.

When Bucky is done, he whines again because words are hard when all coherent thought has been fucked right out of you.

_“Fuck,_ should’a filmed that and saved it for later.”

When Mr. Rogers settles back into his chair with Bucky in tow, Bucky doesn’t stop himself from making it very clear that he feels simultaneously well-fucked and unsatisfied. He knows he’s come, _knows very well he has,_ but it was quick and rushed and is over. He is also very aware of the fact that the Senator still sits heavy in his achy cunt, hot and hard, and Bucky shivers with the desire to have Mr. Rogers’ come fill him up to the brim.

He has little left to give but the few ounces of energy he has does have left, he chooses to use it to pout. Mr. Rogers moves him like a ragdoll, pulls on Bucky’s waist and adjusts his thighs before scooting under the desk and getting situated himself. He ignores Bucky’s huffing. Bucky doesn’t like that, doesn’t want to be ignored, so he turns his lax head into the Senator’s cheek and whimpers into it directly.

He is ignored.

“Alright, where were we? Now that we can focus…”

The meeting proceeds in a successful manner once Bucky gets over the fact that he _still_ is not going to get what he wants. All he needs is one pinch to his thigh as a warning followed by a true question that requires a proper response, and he’s shaking his head a bit to clear it and answering. Organizations and groups are discussed, their purposes, and potential dates are narrowed down for Senator Rogers to come and speak. A thought briefly flutters through Bucky’s brain, one that reminds Bucky that he’ll need to attend these events in the future and listen to the older man speak while remembering _this night_ , but he accepts that’s something he’ll face in the future.

He wants to focus on the now.

Because the now is appealing to a different side of Bucky, one that has him feeling productive and riding the high of compliments and praise related to his successes in the workplace. His reactions are most definitely delayed, and his brain is more than fuzzy, but Mr. Rogers is blessedly and surprisingly patient. Bucky is answering questions like it’s a regularly scheduled meeting, is reading agendas over as best he can, is planning future meetings as the Senator looks his own month over. They work well together, the two of them, very similar minds and work ethics, but they also work well together _intertwined_ and _as one_.

Bucky almost forgets that he’s sitting in the older man’s lap with his ass full of cock until Mr. Rogers starts to make him increasingly aware of just that. Bucky thinks it isn’t intentional at first, is apparently too naïve to believe that the Senator would be taunting and keeping Bucky on edge on purpose. Direct and distracted questions turn breathier, go from questions turned towards Mr. Rogers’ computer to being pressed right into the skin of his neck, his ear. Hands that held a pencil and a few important papers wander from business and meander more towards pleasure.

Hands squeeze at his waist, his hips some, rub at the top of his thighs. Bucky stays focused, naively so, works through penciling in a few more events, ideas for future opportunities. Encouragement in can’t-be-bothered hums turn into pointed and husky, _“That’s great, Bucky so good.”_ Bucky himself doesn’t even realize how affected he has become from all of these erotic touches and movements and praise until he goes to talk and instead ends up choking on a whine.

Mr. Rogers gives Bucky a half-moan, one disguised as a sigh, in response, right there behind his ear.

Bucky tries to power on.

“S-so, if we schedule your speech for the 24th that would give us time for you to still make it to…to the benefit on…on…”

“On what Bucky?” Mr. Rogers asks but Bucky can’t think, thoughts fleeting as they are conjured up and sent slipping seemingly out his ears. There is nothing coy about the Senator and his actions; these are purposeful and heated. The hands on his hips slip up to cup his pecs over his shirt in a movement that rocks Bucky back into the older man with a surprising force, has Mr. Rogers’ lips digging into the hinge of Bucky’s jaw. Bucky gets dizzy, lets his head drop back somewhat, has his insides stirring.

“On…on the 26th,” is what Bucky barely breathes out as Mr. Rogers’ hands dig and pull at his chest in a movement that is much more arousing than Bucky would have assumed. He isn’t playing with Bucky’s nipples per say, but they aren’t unaffected. Bucky whimpers at the feel of such big hands pawing at his chest, his nipples hardening up into little points beneath such ministration. The pen in Bucky’s hand drops onto the desk forgotten the moment that the Senator mouths at his jaw, sucks his earlobe between his lips, tears at it a bit with his teeth.

_“Oh…”_

His hips start to inadvertently pulse, begin to twitch, his achy and sensitive rim pulling on Mr. Rogers’ ( _still somehow hard_ ) cock. He cries out, _hisses,_ has no choice when he’s feeling _so much_ , not used to such overstimulation. His body sings but sings a hectic tune. He wants more but he wants less, wants to be touched everywhere but wants to almost push Mr. Rogers away. He’s trembling with confusion and excitement.

And just like that their meeting’s purpose is forgotten.

It’s like Mr. Rogers can feel the miniscule fight leave Bucky’s body, can feel the moment he says _fuck it_ to their agenda and gives himself over to the older man and to the moment. He purrs into Bucky’s cheek, a warm and happy noise, fingers coming together on both hands to pinch at Bucky’s equally sensitive nipples.

_“Fuck…”_

Mr. Rogers’ kisses become little bites, nips on the side of Bucky’s neck, hands flying down to push and pull and guide Bucky’s hips. It becomes fucking and Bucky barely recognizes it as so.

“Y’been so good for me tonight, Bucky. Were a bit of a brat but y’listened well to your Daddy, didn’t you?” Bucky simply nods his head in response, far too focused on the feeling of his own dick swelling up again, of the bite of fullness all around his delicate hole. “You had yours already, baby. And now I want _mine._ ”

Bucky’s head goes from somewhat wobbly to falling back onto the Senator’s shoulder at those words. Mr. Rogers follows his movement, hands gripping Bucky’s hips with so much ferocity that Bucky knows for a fact there have to be marks blooming underneath the touch. He isn’t even kissing at Bucky’s cheeks and his temple, the movement much more sloppy and open-mouthed, and Bucky’s brain barely lets him acknowledge that he’s going to go home tonight and be an entirely different person.

This is a night Bucky will remember for the rest of his life.

“S’time for Daddy to take what’s his, to have his turn at usin’ this slutty little cunt for what it’s meant for, ain’t that right?” Mr. Rogers asks with a few tight slaps to the inside of Bucky’s thigh. It lifts Bucky from this fog with a garbled squeal, skin pulsing in an unfamiliar yet delicious way. Bucky liked that. He liked the way it hurt and how it made him feel and he wants it again.

The movement tosses Bucky’s head forward, pitches him up a bit, and it’s like this inner vixen comes _alive_ inside of Bucky as he moves. Maybe it’s the arch in his back, maybe it’s the way his thigh throbs from the smack or the way his neck stings from the nips. _Hell,_ it might have something to do with being stuffed so fucking full for so long, the feeling of his balls snug against a fuller, larger pair. Whatever it is Bucky is awoken with renewed slutty energy and he begins to comprehend the magnitude and sheer privilege of Senator Rogers _using_ him.

_“Fuck yeah,_ ” is what he says out loud, biting it out between his teeth as he leans forward more, rests his frontside on the desk in front of them. It’s an answer that validates his own feelings as well as an answer to Mr. Rogers’ question. There are still hands on his hips and they’re tight as Bucky uses this newfound leverage to pop his ass up some, to lift himself on Mr. Rogers’ cock. With his thighs pressed together it makes him gasp shakily at the feeling. He’s so raw, beyond hypersensitive, eyes welling up with tears at the feeling of being so thoroughly taken apart.

_“Jesus wept_ ,” is all Senator Rogers mumbles, a wide palm on Bucky’s ass pushing and spreading his cheek wide, and Bucky _giggles._ He doesn’t know where the noise comes from, just a ball of chaotic emotions and feelings, but he giggles as he works his ass over the older man’s cock. He takes this bit of ownership and runs with it, pulls up, up, _up_ until he can feel the fat crown of Mr. Rogers’ erection tug at his rim.

“Look at _that_ ,” Mr. Rogers groans as Bucky fucks the tip of the Senator’s cock with his ass. It feels different, feels erotic with his legs pressed to tightly together. It makes him hungry.

“Take a bit more, _come on_ , gimme some more,” the Senator guides in a clipped tone and Bucky whimpers, does so, turns and does his best to look over his shoulder behind him. He’s sure he looks a mess, is sure he looks fucked two ways to next Thursday, but he also knows Senator Rogers well enough to know that he _loves_ to see Bucky fucked up in such a way. Bucky’s inner vixen _sings_ , blushes and makes Bucky roll his lower half in a way that would make a stripper cheer him on, he’s sure.

It makes Mr. Rogers _shout_.

It makes him shout and grab for Bucky, makes him stand out of his chair in a rush of a movement that has the wheels of it scurrying back behind them a few feet. It pushes Bucky forward more, down into the desk, makes him cry out in surprise and then lust as he feels a pair of big hands grab and knead at his ass. He can only imagine the Senator’s face as he looks down at where he’s breaching Bucky’s body, squeezing Bucky’s cheeks around his own cock, taking in Bucky’s puffy pink hole stretched around him.

“You gonna let me film you one day? Let me save a little somethin’ for those nights I’m missin’ this sweet ass?”

Bucky isn’t prepared but he _takes it_ , curls his lip around his groan as he nods his head in answer.

“Uh-huh, yeah. I’d make it… _fuck_ d’make it good for you, Daddy.”

Mr. Rogers’ moan is music to Bucky’s ears.

“Know you would, sugar. You’d sound so pretty for me, would look so pretty. Would jerk off to it every night, swear to god. You can bet this tight ass that you can come to work and sit in our meetings knowing I touched my cock watchin’ your video the night before,” Mr. Rogers explains as he holds onto Bucky’s ass and fucks into it slowly, taking time to seemingly relish in the feeling of it, and it’s Bucky’s turn to moan. He likes that idea, likes it very much. But then, Mr. Rogers is pressing in, pushing in _tight,_ balls deep and loudly exhaling as Bucky is left with no choice but to whine and take it.

“Been sittin’ in this warm hole for so goddamn long. It’s my turn to be selfish, my turn to use it. Y’had yours already, didn’t you, honey? Daddy already made you come?”

The pressure of Mr. Rogers’ hands between his shoulder blades and the equally pressured assault on his rim has him gasping out, “Daddy made me come!” before Bucky can even think of how to respond.

“That’s right—it’s my turn. Take your pants off, want your back on that desk,” the Senator demands in a low voice before he’s pulling back, pulling _out,_ leaving Bucky to cry out and whimper at such a foreign feeling. He feels like he’s gaping, moreso emotionally, hanging on by a thread. His limbs are shaky as he turns, as he rolls and maneuvers himself into the position Mr. Rogers wants, fumbles with his shoes and his slacks as he does so. His limbs feel like they’re making their way through molasses while his insides vibrate hysterically.

It’s been thirty seconds and Bucky misses being full, being _touched._ He feels exactly like what Mr. Rogers may have set out to make him feel like all night long—a hole. A hole should be used, be filled, be touched. He wants that, wants to feel like he’s a good boy, a sweet boy for his Daddy, _a slut._ He whines for said touch, for nothing in particular as he scrambles and settles back onto the desk. With his pants off he has almost full range of mobility and spreads his legs almost immediately, head dropping back between his shoulder blades as he moans.

“Wish I could have you like this all the time, drunk on cock, cryin’ for it like a fuckin’ slut,” Mr. Rogers tells Bucky as he squirts more lube into his palm, a messy movement, fists his cock and spreads the substance around where it matters most. Bucky feels his breath hitch once more, his own dick jumping against his stomach. Bucky looks at it, eyes watery, and almost pouts. He’s never been able to get so hard again so quickly and there’s a bite of pain with it that makes everything feel that much more sensitive, on edge.

“You want that? Can keep you at my beck and call, keep you in my bed, all pretty and open for me to use whenever I want to. Yeah?”

Hearing those words and watching Mr. Rogers stroke himself off as he approaches Bucky fully-clothed makes Bucky feel lightheaded. His eyes are entirely unfocused when he wails, a noise that starts in his gut and alarms even himself as it leaves his lips in a feverish noise. He wants that, wants that so _goddamn_ bad, would drop right out of school to just go be Mr. Rogers’ Sugar Baby for the rest of his entire life.

A tight smack to the inside of Bucky’s thigh startles him back to the present.

“Answer me.”

_“Mhmm,”_ Bucky sobs, “Want that, want it so bad, wanna be used, Daddy.” Mr. Rogers moans, reaches down between Bucky’s legs and sloppily wipes the leftover lube on his hand on Bucky’s asshole, smears it like an afterthought. He lifts and pushes Bucky back further onto the desk, easy for a man with such strength. Bucky has no choice but to let him, not that he would object, and then the Senator’s hands are _on him._ They’re on his chest, plucking at Bucky’s nipples, running from his knees up to the crease of each hip to where he ends up practically cupping Bucky’s dick.

“Oh my _god.”_

“Knew you’d like that, _fuck_ that’d be nice. Havin’ a tight piece of ass to come home to each day, to have one phone call away? _Goddamn.”_

Mr. Rogers takes hold of his cock and smacks it against Bucky’s cunt as he speaks. It makes a disgusting noise when he does so and Bucky’s lip curls as he fights back a noise of appreciation. His elbows ache where they dig into the desk beneath him, but he holds steady; he wants to watch Mr. Rogers fuck him as best he can.

Instead of pressing forward, _in,_ like Bucky so desperately wants, Mr. Rogers is mumbling a tight, “Look at me.” Bucky hadn’t realized he had been looking away, the older man commanding his attention so thoroughly he felt like he has had his eyes locked onto ocean ones all night. The Senator has his chin tucked, his cock in hand, rests the tip of it _right there_ at Bucky’s rim. Bucky takes note of how wide his legs are spread. Mr. Rogers must have pushed them out and back towards his chest. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Traffic lights as answers. M’askin’ you now because once I put this cock in you, you’re gonna give anything to your Daddy.”

Bucky whimpers. He’s right.

“Face slapping?”

_Oh shit._

Bucky struggles to swallow.

“Yeah, gre—… green. _Green.”_

Mr. Rogers doesn’t hesitate. “Spitting?”

Bucky’s head falls back again momentarily, that word hitting him like a fucking freight train.

_“Please,_ god green _green_ , gr-green.” Bucky sounds pitiful and the only reason he knows this because Mr. Rogers’ mouth curls into a dirty smile. He presses his cockhead in a bit, the pressure exquisite, and Bucky whines, watches Mr. Rogers’ face as he in-turn gazes down at Bucky’s hungry cunt.

“Breathplay?”

He would say yes to anything, he knows it, but he makes sure to think as clearly as he can given his current predicament. His answer is the same.

”Green… _green.”_

“Can I come inside of you, Bucky?”

Bucky cries. He starts to at least, alarmed in his hindbrain about how emotional he’s been tonight and the rollercoaster he’s been taken on. He doesn’t feel the moisture on his cheeks, but his chest and his throat constrict in the familiar way that lets him know that’s exactly what’s happening.

They’ve had this discussion, their very first. It occurred back when Mr. Rogers called him in for a late meeting just like tonight, where he informed Bucky that he was well-aware of what his stares and looks meant to the Senator. It was a whirlwind of a night, pinned by a gaze and then pinned by a pillar of a body, the very one he had been dreaming of for weeks prior. Mr. Rogers, ever the planner, laid everything out for Bucky in an incredibly surreal moment for him.

_“There are obvious risks involved, Bucky. No one can know, ever. I am wanting something incredibly physical with you. I’ve been havin’ nasty dreams about those lips, can’t imagine what they’d feel like wrapped around my cock. I’ve been getting distracted in meetings daydreaming about your ass, wanna fuck it. Bet you sound so pretty getting’ fucked. I’m clean and have the proof of it. I’d want you to show me the same. You can bet as soon as you do and agree, that boy cunt is mine. If you don’t want this, I just ask that you respect my situation and keep your mouth shut. But by the way you are squirmin’ in your chair shows me you’re gonna say yes aren’t you, baby?”_

Bucky had. Mr. Rogers made him come right in his pants that night with the slightest of touches and every dirty thought he’d apparently been having whispered in his ear. A week later he had slipped a piece of paper on the Senator’s desk proving that he was clean. Everything had worked out, but this is the first time it has been brought up.

What a hell of a night.

_“Mhmm,_ yes. Yes. Green _green green_ fuck,” and Mr. Rogers is chuckling, is moaning into the amused noise, pressing his hips forward like he can’t stand to wait another second. It’s a slow and easy slide in but his walls tremble and shake taking that fat cock back into his ass, like it hasn’t been sitting inside of him and fucking him that night already. Bucky can’t stop making a noise, what seems to be one long noise, tips his head to look forward, two pairs of eyes locked onto the same sight.

_“Fuck me,_ tight as a fuckin’ virgin, don’t know how. Listen to you take it like you live for it, _fuck_. _”_

Bucky does live for it. He would if he could. His eyelids flutter closed as his mind wanders to feeling like this every night, to being on the receiving end of such treatment each day. He’s so lucky. He doesn’t know how he can be pushed to this point of pure feeling and still want more. How can he be crying from overstimulation but still be begging to be fucked _again_?

“Tell Daddy you love it, say _‘I love your cock, Daddy,’…_ ” Mr. Rogers demands in a rush of a breath, thumb rubbing along the edge of Bucky’s hole, the skin above it, and Bucky hiccups.

“Love…love your c-cock, Daddy,” he mirrors in a moan, it ending with a chaotic lilt as he watches and feels Daddy’s hips press against the round curve of his ass. It’s so much. Bucky feels _heavy_ with cock, scrambles and gasps when the Senator grabs for his thighs and pulls them onto steady shoulders. He almost wants to push the older man away to give him time to feel and embrace, but why would he push something away when it’s making him feel so unbelievably good?

Bucky can’t keep his elbows steady any longer, let’s them wobble and then he’s falling back onto the hefty desk underneath him with a _thump_. It feels almost as strong as the hefty man inside of him, above him, the one who is squeezing painfully at his thighs before running his wide palms down to Bucky’s waist. Bucky likes watching Mr. Rogers’ face when he first gets swept away by sensation only sex can provide him, only Bucky can give to him. The Senator always looks surprised, eyebrows knitting together, mouth dropped open. Hungry.

It makes him feels special, pretty even.

The feeling of the Senator’s big hands coming together around Bucky’s middle makes Bucky curse, makes him clench.

“Atta boy, _there you go_ ,” Mr. Rogers purrs, hands situated just above Bucky’s hips as he does very little to warn Bucky about his increase in speed. Bucky feels like a doll, a wrecked one, being held just to get fucked, being used, having no choice but to take it. His body _bounces_ with the force of Mr. Rogers’ thrusts, papers beneath him crinkling, feminine noises being punched out of him with vigor. The Senator doesn’t hold back. Bucky hadn’t realized that what he was on the receiving end of was a reserved version of Mr. Rogers.

It’s obvious this fuck isn’t for him. The way Mr. Rogers digs into the tail-end of his thrusts, the way he holds onto Bucky’s body, the way his eyes zero in on the source of the wet lewd noise of fucking—this fuck is not for Bucky.

And Bucky almost _likes_ that.

_“Fuck,_ Daddy oh…oh god, _yeah_ fuck it, _please_.” Bucky doesn’t know what any of his words mean, what he is begging for, is greedy for. He doesn’t know what it is, but he surely doesn’t expect for it to be a hand tight around his throat.

His whole body clenches. The movement arches his neck, his back, up off the desk with a squeal. His hand flies up to wrap around Mr. Rogers’ wrist in sheer disbelief. Bucky’s movements feel jerky then: his gasps, the way he wraps his lithe thighs around a thick waist, the way he smacks his hands down to curl around the edge of the desk by his sides. The hand around his neck restricts Bucky’s breathing but only _just so_ , just enough of a dangerous reminder that the older man could produce some real damage.

“Oh, _Buck_ look at’chu, so fuckin’ pretty when you’re a little scared.”

Mr. Rogers’ smile is almost a sneer, lip curled, and all Bucky can do is revel in the way the Senator’s cock feels as it takes home inside of Bucky’s cunt over and over and _over_ again. The slide is smooth and the girth of the older man takes the already restricted breath right out of his chest with each push in. Bucky keens, back arched, makes an awfully pitiful noise as his eyes roll back into his head at the heady feeling of having something so base being taken away from him.

Mr. Rogers’ other hand joins the first, two hands on Bucky’s neck now, side-by-side. His eyes stay rolled back for a few extra seconds at the drastic difference in placement. This new grip has him feeling like he’s being yanked down onto Daddy’s cock, moved with strength that Bucky cannot mentally process given his current predicament.

“There ya go, that what you wanted? Yeah? You like Daddy makin’ that boy cunt take it?”

Bucky’s dick _aches,_ hurts, each thrust making it bounce there against his tummy with a hard movement. He feels so swollen all over between his legs, feels so sensitive, as if he is working with a pussy. The hands around his throat make his insides want to scream, make his mouth go slack. He has two seconds of his mouth dropping open before there are fingers in it.

Bucky wails around them, immediately purses his lips around the two digits like a slut, but they aren’t there for long. Mr. Rogers _growls,_ leans over Bucky some, angle doing _wonders_ to brush across his abused prostate in a move that makes Bucky sob. Fingers are replaced with a set of plush lips and, _fuck_ what a relief it is to be kissed, to feel that beard against his face, to be _so close._

It isn’t really a kiss. What it is is damn near disgusting. All tongue, open mouths, hand around Bucky’s neck holding on a fraction tighter. When Mr. Rogers pulls back his lips are cherry red, slick, hot puffs of his breath let loose onto Bucky’s mouth. His movements are a bit more frantic, hips a bit more wild, mouth dropped open. The closer Mr. Rogers gets to an orgasm, the more aggressive he gets. That’s something Bucky has learned over the past few months. It tends to be what pushes Bucky himself over the edge, seeing the Senator lose all control.

Bucky starts to see it the moment Mr. Rogers pushes, shoves, only momentarily stops the stutter of his hips as he manages to crawl over and on top of Bucky to join him on the desk.

“Fuck! Mr.— _…!”_

“Yeah, baby _yeah_ know what you want, know what you need,” Mr. Rogers bites out as those familiar fingers are back inside of his mouth, stroking at his tongue, pressing Bucky’s mouth open wide. Bucky gags, has very little choice when he’s being pressed to his limits, and Mr. Rogers stops moving his hips to watch his own digits slide in and out of Bucky’s mouth.

“You’d let your Daddy do anything to you right now, wouldn’t you?”

When Bucky whines in response, spit leaking from the corner of his mouth, Mr. Rogers presses down onto Bucky’s tongue with two thick fingers.

“Words. Use your words.”

It’s humiliating. It’s humiliating but Bucky takes it and listens immediately, has no semblance of morality or self-awareness. Mr. Rogers kisses at his cheek, the corner of his mouth, as Bucky attempts to use his words to say something along the lines of, _“Yes, yes Daddy can do whatever he wants with me”_ but it comes out as garbled nonsense that makes Bucky’s cheeks turn opaque. Mr. Rogers groan sounds damn near painful, punched right out of the middle of his chest, falling onto Bucky’s chin as the older man’ hips stutter forward.

It’s like it happens in slow motion. Bucky knows it’s on the table, is aware he cried out his permission not even five minutes prior. The fingers in his mouth, on his tongue, press down further, press press _press,_ until Bucky has no choice but to whine and lower his jaw. Right as Mr. Rogers’ hips come back to life is right when he purses his lips and—

He spits right into Bucky’s open mouth.

Some of the saliva catches his bottom lip. Most of it lands right in the back of his tongue, right behind the Senator’s fingers. Bucky must reach some sort of level of being blacked out, of going somewhere he’s never quite been before, because when he comes to there’s a hand gripping his jaw, the fingers are out of his mouth, and he’s _wailing._

Bucky can hear himself gasping and crying, warning Mr. Rogers that he’s going to come.

_“Fuckin’ hell_. Hold it, you hold it. Don’t you fucking dare,” the older man bites out between clenched teeth, the hand on his jaw giving it a good shake. He feels that coil, that build, can’t feel his tongue. He feels the back of his thighs take a brutal beating at the feverish pace that Mr. Rogers sets, scrambling up, shoving Bucky’s knees back to his chest. Bucky feels like he’s coming already, hiccups as his tummy clenches, his cunt clenches. When he swallows his tongue chases the warmth of the other man’s spit as far back as he can. 

Bucky feels delirious, like his head somehow isn’t even screwed on correctly. The only thing keeping him breathing is the air being shoved from his lungs with each thrust of that girthy cock and the gasp that follows. 

“Goddamn look at you, look at that,” Mr. Rogers mumbles to himself, hand on Bucky’s jaw traveling to the front of Bucky’s throat. Bucky can’t stop making noises: whimpers, bitten-off words, sobs. He sounds like he’s drowning. 

“A fuckin’ Daddy’s wet dream aren’t ya? _Aren’t ya?”_

Fingers tap at his cheek, lightly once and then in tight harsh succession after that, just like the pumping motion of Mr. Rogers’ hips. He thinks the Senator tells him to repeat after him, maybe he conjured it up in his mind. Either way, he’s using his open mouth to speak, to sniffle his way through a weak, “ _M’Daddy’s wet dream_ ,” and he fucking believes it in this moment.

He’s never attempted to fend off an orgasm before. Mr. Rogers’ hand on his neck, pressing Bucky down into the same desk that he is going to then sit in front of in the morning, makes it seemingly impossible to fight it. He starts to tell Daddy just that, starts to frantically shake is head, to repeat in a hysterical keen, “M’gonna come, gonna come, m’gonna come… _Daddy, please!”_

Bucky’s eyes are open, he thinks, but they’re incredibly unfocused, watery and blurry. The pressure on his neck makes the pressure in his ass almost unbearable, takes away his focus on his breathing and shifts it to the way the Senator fucks into him. The assault on his sweet spot is tremendous but he wants to be so good, wants to be good for his Daddy, he can’t, _he can’t._

“Oh, you’re so fuckin’ good for me, Buck so fuckin’ good. So good you’re gonna make your Daddy come,” Mr. Rogers reassures in somewhat of a whine. He bends down, fucks into Bucky without restraint, knocks Bucky up the desk with each ruthless movement. Nothing could surprise him at this point but his dick gives one good jump when Mr. Rogers’ bends, gets in Bucky’s face, runs his tongue up Bucky’s cheek.

“You’re gonna take it all like a good boy. Pretty cunt is gonna take every last drop, gonna milk Daddy’s cock fuckin’ dry, gonna take it. Take it, baby take it. _Come on,_ work it outta me, come on, come— _”_

Bucky registers a bite high on his cheekbone, the dig of teeth into his skin, the dig of cock into his hole, and his thighs begin to quake on the Senator’s broad shoulders. Bucky makes a noise he’s never heard himself make. In the back of his mind he has enough sense of awareness to send a prayer up that no one is within half a mile of this office; they surely would alert the authorities of a murder. 

The last thing that slips into the cognizant part of Bucky’s brain, through the syrupy feel of an orgasm ripped from his soul, is Mr. Rogers’ lips pressed into the side of his face, growling out nonsense praise and encouragement through the filthy noises of him fucking his own come deep into Bucky’s cunt.

***

When Bucky comes to, he doesn’t open his eyes right away. He is comfortable. He is warm. He thinks he might be on the decent sized couch on the west wall of the Senator’s office. His body feels like it’s been put through the ringer, aches when he flexes his legs, bends his back a tad. His ass is sore in a way he knows he’ll be feeling for days to come. His sigh is heavy. He feels like he did when Nat made him run that 5K with her back in October: accomplished, achy, a little extra warm on the inside. Exhausted.

When he does open his eyes, it is to a broad mountain of a chest, tempting and thick and comforting. _Skin._ Bucky’s head is resting on it. He can’t decide if he should rub his face into the smattering of hair or bite down on a pec. He chooses to snuggle. 

When he does so, Mr. Rogers purrs above him, lips in Bucky’s hair pursing, arm around Bucky’s neck pulling taut. It pulls him against the line of the older man’s body quite nicely, Bucky’s thigh slipping over the Senator‘s own. Bucky let’s out his own noise equivalent to a warm Daddy one. 

“You back with me, sugar?” 

Mr. Rogers’ voice is so deep, full of such gruffness, a little foggy with strained use coupled with this time of rest. Bucky wants to bury it in his own chest and keep it there forever. He is aware he is just now coming to, waking up, but his eyebrows come together despite this knowledge. 

“I…?” Bucky starts, needing to stop and swallow. “I left you?” He doesn’t have the energy to lift his head, so he leaves it pressed into Mr. Rogers’ skin. He smells divine, all musk, maybe vanilla, maybe pine. Somehow clean but a smell that Bucky’s hindbrain recognizes as one that signifies Mr. Rogers has been using his body. _Sweat._ The hand that can reaches up and presses its fingers into the dip between the Senator’s pecs. 

“Left me pretty hard. Haven’t seen anything like it in quite some time,” Mr. Rogers mutters into Bucky’s temple, position and tone intimate as his other hand skirts down Bucky’s thigh around his waist. Bucky is self-conscious for two seconds, unable to tell if Mr. Rogers pointing that out is a positive thing, but a quick addition of, “Was incredible,” eases his worries. 

It also makes him blush.

This man just—

_Shit,_ he just gave Bucky a sexual experience unlike anything he’ll ever have again in his life, he’s so certain. He introduced Bucky to cockwarming, had Bucky hidden away under his desk, mouth full. He had Bucky sitting in his lap, cunt stuffed full, attempting to complete actual work. He spit on Bucky, he choked Bucky, he—

_“Oh_ you…you came inside of me.”

A noise bubbles up from the back of Bucky’s throat as he whispers these words, and even after the evening they’ve had he feels his belly get warm, feels the way his toes want to curl. The Senator’s arms go tight all over, pull Bucky’s face into the crook of his neck more, tugs at his thigh and curls it around his waist an extra inch or two. Bucky lets himself be moved in such a way, molded into the curvature of the older man’s body. He lets his fingers twist around the Senator’s neck, lets his lips purse at the skin that is already incredibly close to Mr. Rogers’ throat as he tips his chin minutely.

“I did, Buck. That still okay with you?”

Bucky nods his head meekly. Mr. Rogers _purrs._

“Haven’t even cleaned you up yet. Still so messy,” Mr. Rogers murmurs as the hand on his thigh meanders back to run across the cheek of his ass, to tease at the dip between the curve of Bucky’s bottom. Bucky lets out a breathy sigh, one where he feels his own warm breath bounce against Mr. Rogers’ neck. He mouths at the Senator’s neck in a needy way, makes pretty noises as he does so.

“Unbelievable,” Mr. Rogers chuckles. Bucky grins. “What’s a Daddy supposed to do with such a needy boy? Just got done giving you dick for hours, knocked you on your ass, and here you are wanting more while my come is still in your ass.” Mr. Rogers speaks into the top of Bucky’s head, brushes some hair back from his forehead as he does so. A bit of shame prickles at the back of Bucky’s neck at being called out so blatantly but he cannot be blamed, not right when he makes the realization that Mr. Rogers is naked as is he. _Naked_.

“I’ve never seen you naked,” Bucky whispers and there are a few beats of silence before Mr. Rogers is grunting in realization.

“I guess you’re right.”

Bucky lets his hand wander again, lets his fingertips run down and across Mr. Rogers’ chest, his side, his tummy. He’s warm all over, soft. Bucky’s never felt more comfortable.

“How long was I…was I out?”

_“Oh,_ maybe…twenty, thirty minutes.”

Bucky doesn’t know whether that is normal or whether he should be alarmed for any reason. He doesn’t ask how they got here, doesn’t ask where their clothes are. He likes it here. This isn’t something they’ve done before. He’s usually running off, scurrying away from the threat of others. The only other time he had alone with Mr. Rogers was still one in which they had to be careful. Even then, the Senator sneaking into his bedroom after a get together with his family, the older man did not stick around to _cuddle._

“This is…different,” Bucky points out quietly, breaking the silence as Mr. Rogers’ fingers tickle his back. The Senator doesn’t respond right away, breathing slow and deep, chest rising with each inhale. Bucky begins to think he has misspoken until Mr. Rogers hums yet again.

“Any time you do something this intense with someone, just like we’ve done tonight, you must make sure to decompress together. Do you know what that’s called, Bucky? Taking care of your partner after a scene like that?”

Bucky isn’t aware there is a term for something like that. Bucky has kind of hung out with people after sex, has just left in most instances, but he’s never done this with anyone else. He shouldn’t be surprised.

“No, I didn’t know there…there was a term.”

Mr. Rogers kisses his forehead.

“It’s called ‘aftercare’. It will vary depending on your scenes and your partners. It’s important to know what you want and need. If you ever do anything remotely like what we just did your partner should always give you aftercare.”

Bucky makes a curious noise. _Aftercare._

“Is this aftercare?” Bucky asks, hoping Mr. Rogers understands what he is trying to verbally gesture at. Mr. Rogers speaks into the top of Bucky’s head.

“Yeah, can be. You like touch, like to be held; that’s why I chose it. You’re curious, always have questions, which is why I want us to discuss and talk about what happened. You’ll figure out what is important to you, probably already know. Just promise me you’ll make sure your partners know it’s important.”

Bucky nods his head, hums, “Promise.”

“It’s important that your partner makes sure you’re okay, that your head is okay, before just leaving you alone. I would never leave you alone after doing what we’ve done. It was mean and intense and, although we both wanted it, I don’t want you to get too far in your head and get upset about it. Does that make sense?”

It does make sense. Bucky tries to think about how he would feel in this moment if he woke up alone or if he weren’t wrapped up in Mr. Rogers’ arms. He thinks he would be sad. He would definitely feel alone and that would then make him feel vulnerable. He’d surely question what transpired between the two of them tonight and he doesn’t want to feel bad about it. He likes what happened between the two of them. He doesn’t have much experience, the two of them know this, but he can already see the importance of this whole aftercare thing.

Mr. Rogers’ hand is under his chin then, tipping it.

“I understand,” he whispers, and Mr. Rogers smiles, kisses him a few times on the lips.

“That’s good, Buck. Don’t forget.”

They share a couple more kisses, not much heat between them and more reassurance, the physical kind, before Bucky is letting his head fall back to Mr. Rogers’ chest, that broad shoulder. His hand moves back to running its fingers through the hair on the older man’s chest. It’s quiet here at night, different from the bustling daytime hours, people in and out, energy all around.

“What do you like in aftercare, Mr. Rogers?” Bucky asks, voice meek.

“You should call me ‘Steve’ when we’re alone like this, Bucky. I think we’re past formalities at this point,” Mr. Rogers— _Steve_ —explains, hand on his ass reminding him of just how past those formalities they truly are. Bucky repeats the name, lets it roll off his tongue in practice.

“I do like aftercare. I like giving it _and_ getting it. Hell, giving it probably gives me aftercare. I’m very hands-on and like long sessions of it. Wish I would have thought this through and figured out a way to get you back to my place. Maybe next time.”

Bucky’s heart jumps a bit in his chest.

“Your partners will want different things, just make sure to communicate.”

Another few seconds of silence pass, Bucky’s eyelids fluttering as he fights drowsiness, soaks in the unrushed syrup-like feel of the moment.

“How do you feel?”

Steve’s question has Bucky opening his eyes.

“I feel really good.”

“Yeah? What did you like?”

Bucky wonders if he can respond with _“Everything”_ but that wouldn’t be conducive to a positive aftercare session, he’s sure.

“I liked how mean you were,” Bucky starts, needing to bite his lip to tame his smirk, his giggle. “But you knew that. You were really mean. I liked cockwarming.”

Steve makes a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a purr.

“You really did, look at you,” he chides, pulling his arm tight around the back of Bucky’s neck. “I was almost certain you would enjoy it, but I didn’t expect you to go so sweet so fast.”

“Sweet?” Bucky repeats in question. Steve moves them, rolls a bit until he’s leaning up and over Bucky casually, Bucky’s skin sticking to the leather beneath him now instead of the warm body. Steve brings the hand that is not holding his head up, up to Bucky’s mouth, runs his thumb along Bucky’s bottom lip.

“Yeah, it’s a version of a term that refers to the headspace a Sub can go to when they are given certain treatment from a Dom.”

Bucky shifts his body, curls a bit towards Steve to look at him more head-on.

“Did you feel yourself get a little sleepy? Was it harder to focus? Did you _feel_ sweet?” Steve asks and Bucky is immediately nodding his head.

“Yeah, I…I felt like I was really inside of my head for a bit. I became super about… _you,”_ Bucky explains, a grin growing on his face as he watches one appear on Steve’s own. His hand curls around the older man’s hip. Steve leans forward, gives Bucky a kiss with a smirk tacked on.

“You love bein’ a good boy for Daddy don’t you, Buck?”

Bucky almost _whimpers_ , definitely ducks his head, but Steve clicks his tongue, tips Bucky’s chin up with his fingers.

_“No,_ no we love that. Love how good you are for me. Makes me so happy, gonna make others so happy.”

_Others._ Steve is bringing that up a lot, how things should be with other people. Bucky almost finds comfort in that, to have someone to teach Bucky these things, to guide him. He’s never wanted something official with Mr. Rogers, is sure Steve doesn’t want that with him, and it just…works for them. It’s still a relationship of sorts and they’re enjoying themselves; Bucky really likes what they have going on.

“I…I _really_ liked your hand on my neck and…and—”

“Me spitting on you?”

Bucky’s tummy turns warm again. He nods his head.

“I was surprised at that one, honey. Got me there,” Steve murmurs, extends his neck and nips at Bucky’s bottom lip. “So fuckin’ good though.” Bucky hums in agreement, burying his face back into Steve’s burly neck. Steve was right—it is nice to communicate after sex like that. It is nice knowing how the Senator feels, even nicer telling Steve how he has made Bucky feel. He feels quite giddy inside, like he’s being responsible and making smart choices. While still getting his brains fucked out by the Daddy of his dreams.

Steve teaches him more that night, more about aftercare, more about himself. They lay on that couch together until Bucky can no longer bear the feel of the leather of the couch against his skin. He thinks he’ll put his clothes on then, fumble with his belongings and make his way home, but Steve pulls him into the private bathroom in his office. Bucky lets himself be moved, be taken care of the way that Steve says he should be.

He embraces this aftercare in full, lets Steve run a warm washcloth over his most sensitive areas with only a tiny bit of blush high on his cheekbones. The soft kisses on his neck and shoulder as big hands clean him down, prepare to send him on his way, make him feel that _sweet_ that Steve had been referring to. He likes feeling sweet.

Steve is quiet during this part of aftercare, methodically and focused. Bucky likes the attention, to be on the receiving end of such concentration. The older man even helps Bucky put his clothes back on, buttons his buttons, slips his socks back onto his feet. Bucky finds himself returning the favor, knotting Steve’s tie at his neck as the Senator tells him how sweet he is.

It’s all just… _nice._ Even when Bucky has his bag slung over his shoulder, is standing at the door, Steve is giving him goodbye kisses that almost get out of hand again, deep and a little dirty.

“Can’t get enough’a you,” Steve tells him with a nudge of the nose and Bucky feels like he’s in the clouds. He leaves with Mr. Rogers’— _Steve’s—_ personal number in his phone just in case he gets any kind of funny feeling tonight. Bucky doesn’t foresee that happening. Steve is too good of a Daddy ( _a Dom he’s learned)_ to let that happen.

“Just in case,” he tells Bucky with a wink and quick squeeze of the ass.

And Bucky leaves.

They part ways like they always do but it _isn’t_ like they always do. Bucky feels fulfilled more than physically; he feels fulfilled all over. This feels purposeful. He feels that delicious ache he always feels all throughout his body when he leaves the Senator. He feels well taken care of. He knows where he stands with Steve, knows that the older man has his best interest at heart. He’ll go to his internship a few days from now, cheeks burning and pants tightening as he gets distracted in Senator Rogers’ meeting by thinking of the play-by-play from a few nights before. He’ll sneak a pic of his ass on his lunch break in the mirror, hugged by his jockstrap, and send the yummy selfie to Steve’s new number in his phone alongside a kissy emoji.

_“My office. 4 PM. Daddy’s hungry.”_

Oh yeah—things are nice.

**Author's Note:**

> Lord have mercy come scream with me over on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/howdoyousleep3.,).


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